Boredom in Obedience
by The Black Sun's Daughter
Summary: Arthur says something foolish and hurtful, being a prat as always, and Merlin gets back at him...by being a perfect servant. It's distinctly unnerving. Arthur hates it.


This is just...unnerving.

Arthur curses himself internally for being unable to hold his tongue as he watches Merlin refill Princess Ettiene's goblet; she's there to secure a trade treaty with him, her kingdom small but decently rich in ore, and so far it's been going well.

Princess Ettiene is not the problem. Merlin is.

Or actually, he _isn't_ being a problem. As convoluted as it sounds, that's actually what's most troubling.

It's all Arthur's fault, as much as he hates to admit it.

* * *

Two days ago, before Ettiene arrived, Arthur had explained to his manservant that he would be in charge of making sure of the princess's accommodations and ensuring that she had all she desired. It was one of the more subtle points of respect, to have one's own personal manservant see to a guest.

Arthur had been in particularly foul mood that day—on top of the thousand other little stresses of running his kingdom, the old wound from the Questing Beast was acting up again, there was a persistent crew of bandits preying on the outlying villages, and a petty dispute between two nobles was getting way out of hand—and he'd snapped at Merlin. "Do you think you can handle that, Merlin? I know you struggle with the most basic of tasks on a daily basis, and the last thing I need is to look like a fool, which you seem to excel at above all else."

It wasn't their usual back-and-forth, friendly jabs and teasing barbs. He'd been well and truly unkind, wanting someone else to be as miserable as him. When Merlin gave him an injured look, Arthur should have backed off. He hadn't. "Maybe I should send George instead. Jokes about brass would be better than your incompetence. It'd be a shame if Princess Ettiene died from your inane chatter before we come to a trade agreement."

Merlin hadn't said a word, which was Arthur's first warning that he'd gone too far. No insults, no returning smirk and sniping. Just hurt in downcast blue eyes and a jaw clenched tight. "I'll do my best not to disappoint, Your Majesty."

_That_ had been enough to truly unnerve Arthur, but by the time he'd looked up, Merlin was gone, slipping out without a word.

* * *

And now, Merlin is just not being...Merlin.

Ironically, he's been the very epitome of a perfect servant. Arthur's chambers have been impeccably tidy; his clothes all neatly pressed, folded, and put away in proper places; his meals on time; his bathwater perfect temperature. He's not disobeyed Arthur once, has practically jumped to follow orders, has been quiet and obedient and attentive.

Arthur hates it.

He tries not to sulk too obviously as he watches Merlin attend to Princess Ettiene.

He doesn't know who taught Merlin the finer points of serving or when he found the time to learn, but his manservant appears as though he's been training for this since his youth. The cloth he holds beneath the wine jug, the angle he approaches from, the line of his arm when he goes to pour, it's all practically textbook. Ettiene seems to appreciate it, at any rate, and Arthur is at least pleased to know that their trade agreement is as good as signed.

Toying with his fork, he attempts to catch Merlin's eye but fails. He's almost dying from boredom.

Any other feast, Merlin would be sort of roaming around the hall; he'd let Arthur's cup run dry for a moment, but when he returned, he'd repeat snatches of various conversations he'd heard. Arthur had almost snorted wine out of his nose laughing more than once.

It's killing him, and the rest of the feast drags by agonizingly slow.

Ettiene is a lovely woman, funny, intelligent, kind, but she's careful to keep her interactions with Arthur just on the slightly cooler side, to make sure he doesn't get any ideas, not that he had any to begin with. But it means that she's not exactly an ideal conversation partner, and he gives thought to purposefully spilling wine on himself just to have a reason to excuse himself. Merlin would have to get the stain out, though, and the thought stays Arthur's hand.

Finally, though, finally, the princess bids him goodnight and excuses herself from the remnants of the feast, giving the rest of them leave to depart as well. He catches Merlin's elbow as the young man passes, though Merlin still manages not to meet Arthur's eye. "Send George to see to Princess Ettiene tonight. Attend in my chambers," he says quietly. He almost says 'please.' Almost.

Merlin bows his head. "As you wish, sire."

Once in his chambers, Arthur manages to hold his tongue all whilst Merlin undresses him and puts aside his clothes to be cleaned. But once he's in his nightshirt and Merlin bows to take his leave, he can't stand it anymore.

"I'm sorry," Arthur exclaims; Merlin pauses, still not looking at him directly, but he's listening. "Merlin, I-I'm sorry. Alright? You're not incompetent. You're a very good servant, and I wouldn't have it any other way. I was just..." He heaves a sigh. "Being a prat. Now, please, will you stop this? If I have to endure another feast like that I might very well lose my mind."

Merlin is perfectly silent for a long moment, still not meeting his eyes; Arthur tries his damnedest not to squirm, all while hating the fact that this big-eared idiot could make him squirm at all.

"So you admit you're a prat?"

Arthur exhales a breath he hasn't realised he's held. "Yes, Merlin. Is what you want to hear from me? Fine. I was a prat. I _am_ a prat. The biggest prat in the five kingdoms. There? Happy? Shall I open the windows and shout it into the courtyard while I'm at it?" he asks.

Merlin gives him that crooked white smile that Arthur's been missing the past three days, blue eyes glittering with mirth. "Well, it would certainly make _my_ night better, sire," he replies, and yes, he's back to using 'sire' almost sarcastically, like it's an insult.

Laughing, he snakes an arm around Merlin's neck and pulls him into a headlock, rubbing his knuckles into the git's scalp until Merlin squirms and protests loudly, pushing against Arthur's arm. Merlin pats down his hair, giving the blond a halfheartedly baleful glare even as he smiles.

"Ettiene is leaving tomorrow. Attend to me in the morning; she can live with George for a day," Arthur says, grinning as he gets into bed.

"Your wish is my command, O gracious king," Merlin replies with a low, mocking bow.

Arthur hurls a pillow at his head.

* * *

Ettiene leaves Camelot with a faircopy of their trade agreement and two wagons full of stores; George had attended to her the entire morning, and Arthur is fairly certain she looks quite relieved to be escaping him.

Once her entourage has left, he heads back to his chambers to oversee another petition over some foolish bit of petty rivalry. Merlin brings him breakfast, late as ever and once more chattering on about everything going on in the castle from which squires were trying to steal glances into ladies' chambers to the scullery maid that's just wed a farrier in the lower town.

Shuffling pages, Arthur listens to him with one ear, then frowns when he looks at the tray. "Merlin?"

"Sire?" The young man looks up from where he's laying out Arthur's mail and sword for training practice later.

"Where are my sausages?"

Merlin blinks at him with wide eyes, the very picture of innocence. "Sausages, sire?"

Arthur snatches up his empty goblet and pitches it at Merlin's head.

The dark-haired boy ducks it with a laugh. "Looks like you need the practice today, sire, your aim's a bit rusty!"

Much better.


End file.
